I walked over and looked out his sliding glass doors onto the balcony. The high rises of CityPlace and downtown West Palm glistened in the distance, lit by a pink sunrise. “What am I doing here?” I muttered to myself, resting my head against the warm glass. We were at two different places in our lives. He wanted Papa John’s; I wanted Papapietro Perry Pinot. My palate had evolved from beer to vodka to spritzy white wines to silky reds. My taste in men was maturing too. I bit at my thumb cuticle, thinking about the direction his life was taking. College was a distant memory for me. I never wanted to step foot on a college campus again unless it was for a guest speaking gig. A bachelor’s degree and some work experience was a solid springboard for a career in California wine country. The only thing missing is a husband, I told myself. Tyler was sweet, good looking, athletic, smart, driven and wealthy. He seemed like my Superman. Just like his song says: I smiled to show how happy I was, but how long would I keep faking it? Fernando had been my true Superman, and I was dead to him—not the other way around. I pressed my fingers against the glass doors, feeling the despair rake through my chest. For months, I’d kept telling myself Tyler was worth waiting for—handsome, wholesome, well-to-do Tyler. He wants a girl like me—he just isn’t ready for a serious relationship. Fine dining and wine tasting will grow on him. I’d been brainwashing myself with affirmations as bitter as cheap box wine. It was time for my inner wino to spit or swallow—go or stay. Will he ever be ready? Will he ever love wine? The questions rolled through me, as rays of sunshine sprayed into his living room. My eyes stayed fixed on the horizon. You have to do this, Harley. Put your needs first for once. I could no longer pretend that cold pizza and weekend hook-ups in a single bed would keep me satisfied, while I waited for Tyler to profess his love for me and for all things epicure. Our relationship wasn’t built on sex—it developed from mutual attraction and similar tastes in songs, television and exercise—so a part of me didn’t want to give up on one of the few relationships that had started out right. But I had to face the music: He just wasn’t that into me. Maybe if Tyler and I had met two years later, things would have been different. Timing is everything in dating.
My days of working overtime to win a guy’s heart were long gone. I was listening to my own heart, and using my head for the first time. I wanted to spend my life with someone who shared my passions, and made me his number one priority. The next time I saw Tyler, I would break up with him. I would not run away. I would not leave a note. I would sit down with him and tell him it was over and why—like all adults should.
And for the first time in my life, more than anything, I hoped we could just be friends.
PAUL
“HUNTER”
Dido
REWIND: It can’t be good luck if you tell a guy you love him for the first time while you’re bent over the back bumper of his car puking your brains out, and he’s holding your hair. I wanted to blurt that answer back to the rosy-cheeked woman and her pigtail braids. A vice of embarrassment clamped tighter around my throat, as she sat in a fancy armchair with bony fingers laced in her lap, watching me squirm on the beige loveseat. A pair of reading glasses dangled from a string of tiny pearls around her neck. The woman reminded me of my sixth grade social studies teacher, but her office was more uncomfortable than afterschool detention.
I sat on the edge of her loveseat, looking down at the flowery accent rug between us. “What I love most about Paul.” I paused and lifted my head. Laugh lines carved deeper in her wrinkled face, as she smiled warmly and batted her kind eyes. I pressed my palms between the knees of my Gap jeans, feeling the pressure to talk openly about our relationship squeeze my insides. “We’ll, it’s hard to pick just one thing.” I took a long, deep breath, like a drag on a fancy cigarette. “He’s devoted to me. He’s always there for me when I need advice about work. He helps me do all the things guys usually don’t, like cooking, cleaning and running errands. He’d rather spend weekends with me than with a bunch of guys. He’s dependable. He’s strong. He takes charge of situations. He’s smart.” I spouted the words until my lungs ran out of breath, then inhaled deeply. He holds my hair while I puke. He slaps my ass with a wet towel. My mind kept churning out his virtues after my lips had stopped moving. I turned to Paul at the other end of the loveseat and smiled sheepishly. His face was as pale as a sheet of paper.
Did I say something wrong again? My heartbeat ran wild under my taupe turtleneck. The last thing he’d expected to do on Valentine’s Day was attend a couple’s workshop with a life coach named Ziggy that I’d found on Craigslist. I was always pushing him to do things he didn’t want to do. “It will be good for us to talk to someone about this other than ourselves,” I’d begged at the dinner table, two weeks before. For the first time in years, he’d agreed to a weekend activity that didn’t involve us cleaning the house, weeding the yard, balancing our checkbooks or shopping for groceries.
Ziggy nodded along to my monologue, then her eyes moved to Paul. “What do you love about Harley, Paul?” The words trickled from her mouth with a warming grace. Then silence. Flames crackled in a fancy marble fireplace across the room. The place felt more like a parlor in a Victorian home than a counselor’s office.
My fingers rubbed the embroidered flowers on the loveseat, as I waited in anticipation of the compliments I’d been starving for. I stuffed my hands deep between my clamped thighs before looking over at Paul’s profile. A long, wide nose and full brow line dominated his features. He wore Hugo Boss jeans and a cashmere designer sweater. Paul always dressed classy, among the many things that attracted me to him.
He pressed his fingertips together above his knees. “She…uhhh…ummm…” I stared at his face, waiting for his lips to move. I’d never known Paul to be at a loss for words. “Well, uhhh, she’s a great support tool for my career.” My eyes zoomed from his face to hers. Shock stunned every muscle in my body but my heart. I felt like two jackrabbits were humping in my chest, but I could not move. The woman cleared her throat and smiled. What about pretty? Affectionate? Caring? My mind screamed the rebuttal. I tried to swallow. My mouth was drier than a bag of cotton balls.
“And?” Ziggy asked, baiting him to continue. I watched his lips move. He said something about being affectionate, dedicated and smart, but the words were muffled inside my racing head. He definitely didn’t say pretty.
She shuffled her hands in her lap. “Why don’t you tell me how you met?”
“At work,” we both said in unison, in a tone flatter than cheap bubbly. I turned to him, waiting for a disapproving look to flash over his stern face. He looked a bit like Jason Statham, The Transporter—Paul shaved his head with one of those fancy skull blades, and he had the same wide nose and serious, ass-kicking look. “We carpooled to a trade show together in Key West about five years ago, and we’ve been together ever since,” I said, smiling softly at Paul.
Our fate had been sealed in November 1998, only a month after I’d broken up with Tyler, when mixing work and romance still seemed like a brilliant idea. A fatality accident had closed Seven Mile Bridge on Highway 1 for three hours, so we’d spent eight hours in Paul’s sparkling sedan, talking about work, relationships and life. He too had grown up in a tiny farming town and had paid his way through college by waiting tables. We’d covered more ground in one car ride than most people do in five dates. Even though we’d worked together for ten months, I’d known little about Paul before that night, except that he was separated from his wife, had a dog, wore expensive ties and was the only winery sales manager (“suppliers” as they’re called in the business) who stopped by my office each week to drop off new tasting notes and press kits for the Kendall-Jackson wine brands.
I raised my eyes to Ziggy. “He was always my favorite customer.” I smiled, remembering our start. Paul had possessions that screamed maturity: tasseled leather loafers, a company car, an expense account and a black day planner (i.e. life before smartphones), which he clutched under his arm like a priest carrying the Bible.
And he could stick his nose in a glass of red wine and guess the varietal with ninety percent accuracy. My kind of guy.
“It’s the easiest relationship I’ve ever had,” I continued. “Paul never plays games.” If he wanted to see me, he’d just call. From the day we’d returned from Key West, he called me every night. Paul made the effort to drive to my place. He picked up every tab for lunch, dinner or drinks, flexing his expense account muscle at hip restaurants on South Beach. He chose nights and weekends with me versus drinking beer in a bar or playing a round on the golf course. No boyfriend had ever made me his top priority before. The two guys I’d been dating before the Key West road trip—Alex, a Fort Lauderdale bartender who kissed like a fish, and Kyle, a sports reporter for a Palm Beach TV station—were quickly cut lose. I could sense fate at work. Within two weeks, I’d known Paul and I would get married some day. Why? I was smack-dab in the middle of my optimal marriage window—age twenty-four—so the timing was right. Within a month, he’d asked me to move into his apartment. I couldn’t imagine saying, “It’s too soon” back then. We’d just spent a Saturday night drinking Kristone Rosé sparkling wine at another Kendall-Jackson employee’s house party, and I’d told him I loved him while puking on his car’s back tire. He’d held my hair from my face and replied, “Ah, Baby. I love you too.” K.J. discontinued Kristone wines a year later, which should have been a sign.
Ziggy chuckled. “Relationships are never easy.”
“It was easy.” My fingers shot to my mouth. I gnawed on my pinky nail. “I thought it was.” I paused, feeling my chest tighten. “He was such a great boyfriend, unlike any I’d dated before.” I watched the side of Paul’s rigid face. His jaw locked as the word “was” left my throat.
Living with Paul had immediately brought a sense of order to my jumbled life—the world of a young woman whose parents weren’t big on rules or routines during my wonder years. Before meeting Paul, I’d dedicated myself to work, work and college, then back to work again. While I’d learned how to make a Manhattan, organize a wine festival, write a wine auction news article and make homemade Chardonnay, bare necessities at home had fallen to the wayside. Paul had taught me chapters in the book of life my parents had skipped over: making the bed each morning, cleaning the house every Saturday, neatly folding socks and towels, grocery shopping with a list (every Sunday afternoon at three o’clock and he pushed the cart!) and balancing our checkbooks every Sunday night. Paul’s entire world was one gigantic to-do list: all decisions were thoroughly calculated. Our life had more structure than U.S. Army boot camp. He loved managing the finances. After watching my mother crying over her checkbook when she’d finally left my dad, I’d promised myself, at age sixteen, that I would always have money, and I’d marry a man who’d manage it for me. Six years of fending for myself financially had taken its toll. The idea of being stripped of all loathsome accounting responsibilities captivated me from the moment we’d started dating. Paul’s business sense and knack for routines meant responsibility and maturity, a refreshing change from dating fellow college students. Dating Paul was so much easier than any boyfriend before him that I took it as a sign that we were meant to be.
Ziggy shifted her body toward Paul. “Did you find the relationship easy from the beginning as well, Paul?”
“Yes,” he said flatly. “But I thought it was just fine two months ago.” His eyes never met mine. I inhaled, feeling the exasperation filling my chest. It was fine, if you think eating the same foods, talking about the same workplace frustrations and watching the same TV shows every day is a perfectly fulfilling way to live your life. For the first two years, Paul and I were as inseparable as three-year-old twins. We’d go to the gym together at six every morning. We’d shower together every day before work. We ate the same cereal side by side at our dining room table. Having our routine made me feel fulfilled. Paul was my best friend and co-pilot in the world of wine. When it came to the wine business, we made one hell of a team. He was the salesman; I was the marketer.
“Harley, you said on the phone you wanted to improve how the two of you communicate.” Ziggy patted out the creases in her calf-length jean skirt and waited patiently for my reply. My stomach squished with anxiety. I felt like I’d eaten a gallon of ice cream.
“Well, it seems like every time we talk, the conversation turns adversarial.” I stared down at my laced fingers. “I’ve been reading some books, and I think that’s what has happened, and I know it’s not healthy.” I could feel Paul’s brown eyes staring at me. My insides churned. He took a deep breath and exhaled, like he always did when he was frustrated with me. I pressed on, letting the examples pour from my lips. Life had gotten to the point where we argued about whether or not the creamed spinach had enough parmesan cheese, or if the dog had been fed at the right time of day: 6 a.m. and 6 p.m., sharp.
“Do you agree with her, Paul?” Ziggy asked, sitting on the edge of her chair.
He squirmed like a kid in a dentist’s chair. “Yeah, I suppose there’s some truth to that. I’m just not sure if changing how we talk to each other will make her happy.” His eyes locked on the woman while I stared at the side of his face and bit my fingernail. Whenever we argued, Paul always played the “nothing will ever make you happy” card. For years, I’d thought maybe he was right. I was asking for too much. During our first year together, we never argued.
“When did the arguing start?”
Paul folded his arms across his puffy chest and looked at me.
My chin dropped; I shrugged my shoulders.
“When we moved to California.” His sharp tone cut through me. It always did.
My eyes stayed fixed on my fingernails while Paul explained how our big cross-country move went down. Moving from Florida to California in 2001 had made my life more tenuous than a Real Housewives of New Jersey season finale. I’d received a job offer in July 2001 to run the events department at E&J Gallo Winery, the largest family wine company in the world, based in Northern California. Paul’s high-paying job in sales had had many perks—the company car, the unlimited expense account, the annual bonus—and he was next in line for promotion. He didn’t want to leave South Florida. When he’d asked me if I would go to California without him, I’d lain in his queen-sized bed in the darkness and couldn’t say a word. I didn’t want anyone to hold me back from my California dream ever again.
“The job market out here hasn’t been as easy for him as it has been for me,” I said, keeping my eyes on counselor Ziggy. In California, my career had soared and his had sputtered. I’d traveled around the country to major cities, decorating wine tasting stations at wine festivals and pouring samples for consumers. Paul had worked at the corporate offices of a wine retail chain located in the East Bay. His expense account was hacked down faster than a redwood in a Pacific Northwest lumberyard; his salary had no bonus. “I miss Fort Lauderdale,” Paul had said while we shared a plate of nachos at Applebee’s—our Friday night routine while living in the culinary hotbed that is Manteca, California. “I think his job put a lot of stress on our relationship,” I said. After six months in California, my salary had surpassed Paul’s. My guilt had helped me endure the arguing for nearly two years. He’d shot down my first four selections on fabric designs for our den window valence. He’d rejected my requests to drive to Napa Valley or San Francisco on the weekends and had complained when I’d bought new clothes without consulting him first. He’d agreed to take me to Old Orchard to buy plants for our front lawn, then vetoed all my choices. He’d scolded me when I’d bought a blue collar for his dog because she’d been wearing red ones her entire life.
“My job?” Paul huffed, squaring his broad shoulders. “I think it was your job.”
I sat on the couch with my jaw locked, shaking my head. He always wanted to pick a fight. Whenever I was working a wine festival, I’d call him from a hotel room (where I spent a third of my time), and he’d snap at me about how he had to clean up dog puke and take out the trash while I’d been nibbl
ing on sautéed fish at white-table cloth restaurants. He’d made big sacrifices for my career, and I’d deserved to take some heat for it.
“Your job was the only issue we ever had in Florida. The only issue.” He pointed a strong hand at me as the words shot from his mouth. Paul always had grip and a long finish … just like his favorite wine: Napa Cabernets from Howell Mountain.
I slouched into the love seat. “I guess he’s right.” Trying to argue with Paul sucked the energy out of me. It was easier to just agree. I explained how our troubles probably began in 1999 when I’d moved to a competitor wine distributor to be director of public relations and special events. We couldn’t sit at the same table at black-tie galas because I worked for the “enemy.” Paul would nip at my heels during wine tastings, telling me that my work was done as soon as the event started. “Come on, Honey,” he’d bark. “It’s time to go home. Now.” My eyes would plead with him to stop, as he’d tugged me out the door. I’d always wanted to stay until the end of each tasting and remove empty wine bottles, tasting note cards and tablecloths from the stations. I took ownership and pride in my job. I wanted the winery sales directors—my clients—to see my strong work ethic. And I wanted to sample that new vintage of Joseph Phelps Le Mistral—a delicious rosé that was hard to find at retail shops—when I’d finished putting on a successful event. I’d left the distributor world for a PR agency in hopes of ending the tension between us. It had worked for a couple months. Then the tech bubble had burst in early 2000, and the firm started hemorrhaging clients. I was fired for talking to a competitor about leaving to join their team, and Paul had supported me through all the drama.
My head oscillated like an electric fan. “I didn’t think work would be such an issue once we were married.” The words blurted from my shaking jaw. Paul and I had been engaged for almost a year before I’d felt ready to set a wedding date in 2000. Marriage had scared me so much once the ring I’d been dreaming about for years was actually on my finger. Not only did I not want to get divorced like my parents, I never wanted my children to experience the same financial hardships and part-time fatherhood. Marrying Paul seemed like the best way to calm my relationship fears. He’d navigated treacherous waters I’d yet to cross: running a household, managing finances and even being married. He’d already made his mistakes. He wouldn’t repeat them. This might be a great strategy for choosing a Wii bowling partner, but not a husband.
THE EXES IN MY IPOD: A Playlist of the Men Who Rocked Me to Wine Country Page 28
